Touché!
by MacMhuirich
Summary: How did Agent Timothy McGee get that scar on his right cheek? Here's how. ;D Purely fiction of course… What consequences had this event from the past? Minor character death. Some McAbby at the end.
1. Chapter 1: A New Hobby

**I know I still have another work in progress, but...yeah...well...you know me. ;D Just couldn't help myself and get another one started.  
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><p><strong><span>Chapter 1<span>: A New Hobby**

**A day in 1993…**

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Other than metal blades crossing, or the heavy breathing of the contestants, the St. Vincent School sports hall was silent.

It was a good match. Well worth watching. A textbook one in its technicity. The two boys were worthy opponents, both of equal match.

And then, the inexplicable thing happened. The horror of horrors on the Strip!

- -.-. -. . .

**Two years before…**

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"Mo-om! Please, mom, don't make me to that!" the thirteen year old whined as he hurried down the stairs in the wake of his mother.

She'd been up to his room to bring him the good news! His dad had entered him for fencing classes. That was not what teenage Timothy McGee had envisaged as a neat hobby. His idea of pastime was reading book after book. His realm was the library. Books and computers. Since his parents gave him his first Apple SE as both a birthday present and a reward for his excellent marks at school, he rarely left the sanctuary of his room.

And that was precisely why his parents had brainstormed to get their son involved into something more physical. They had become worried when their son, who should be playing with other boys his age, locked himself in his room. Some social contact wouldn't be amiss, they thought. He had but few friends at school, if any. It was time for him to leave the sidelines.

Theresa McGee, née Troubridge, had been a champion in her teens and his father, the Navy Commander, thought it the ideal opportunity to toughen up his boy by sending him to a combat sports class.

What nobler sport than the art of fencing?

"It'll do you good, Tim." Theresa reassured him, continuing her way to the basement holding the laundry basket under one arm and supporting it with the other.

"But mo-o-oooom..."

Theresa had her back to him, but there was a knowing smile on her face as she had no trouble imagining the pout on his young face. She knew her sensitive son so well. She could read his expressive face like a book...and his voice, too.

She put down the hamper and started stuffing the dirty linen inside the machine.

"It's a great sport, you know? I know I enjoyed it when I was your age. In fact, I may even think of taking it up again, myself. It's either that or athletics. Your choice. If you're so insistent on not wanting to join the fencing club, I can maybe persuade your father to cancel your subscription and enter you in the local athletics club. So, which will it be?"

Mrs McGee set the hamper to the side and started the washing program before turning to her pensive son, arms crossed in front of her chest.

He just stood there in the doorway, with a forlorn look on his face, as he pondered about the proposal.

She could swear she could see the cogs turning in his head. His eyes were vacant but his mind wasn't idle at all.

He never liked the idea of joining any sports club. He didn't fancy being part of a team and even at school didn't like to shower with all the other boys. He was skinny and lanky. His face looked like a girl's. He lacked stamina, or so his teachers let him believe. He certainly didn't think he possessed endurance, either, so he agreed with their assessment on his physique. He was the nerd. The freak. The wussy. And the other boys' sports consisted of bullying him mercilessly.

Then he thought about the gear of a fencer and suddenly he found the mask quite appealing. It offered anonymity... For the duration of the fight, at least, his face would be hidden.

The more he thought about it, the more he was warming to the idea. He had to admit it was a graceful sport. It had an air of elegance as well as history about it. Chivalry and swashbuckling.

Yes, it was definitely getting more appealing the more he tought about it.

Besides, if mom had been so good at fencing, then surely he would be able to follow into her footsteps? She might even teach him a trick or two. It wouldn't do to be only half the skilled fencer his own mother was. And wouldn't it make his dad proud?

As a very astute boy, he couldn't fail but notice his father's disappointment at his son's...lack of activity.

Tim had even overhead the albeit rare heated conversations between his parents when he was supposed to be asleep in bed.

No. Dad didn't like it one bit that his son didn't behave as was expected of boys.

Tim didn't like playing outdoors with the other kids. Tim felt a lot more comfortable with his nose dug deep in his books or his nose glued to his computer monitor.

The only times Tim enjoyed being outdoors doing something other than reading and computing were the times he'd parked himself and his telescope in the backyard, gazing at the stars up above. He knew all the constellations by heart. Okay, not all of them; only the ones visible in the northern hemisphere.

Of course, when going down to the fencing club, he wouldn't be able to spend as much time with his books or computer as he'd wish.

Yes. Theresa could tell the exact moment when his mind had wandered off to that place, seeing how his face fell.

She closed the machine and, standing patiently watching him, she understood how hard it would prove to draw her smart son away from the things he really loved.

Theresa McGee sighed and once more directed her attention to the washing machine to set the program.

The boy looked up as he heard his mother sigh, thinking he'd disappointed her, taking so long about such a simple decision.

"Mom...I..."

She straightened her back and looked at him with a warm smile.

"Tim, you don't have to if you really don't want to. I shouldn't have given you just those two options to choose from. Of course you can try something more to your liking. Your dad and I know how much you love your books and your Apple. But you have to understand you need some exercise, too. We'd prefer some outdoor activity but... Anyway. Just think about it, okay?"

She started mounting the stairs, out of the basement.

"Tim? Are you coming, or are you planning on staying down here all day?"

Tim nodded to himself and then, humming, bounded up the stairs.

His mother gave a little smile when she switched off the light and closed the door behind him as he continued his ascent to his own room. No doubt he was already feeling missed by his computer. This boy's best friend.

Having caught a glimpse from his face, she now knew for sure they'd succeeded in getting him interested in a new hobby.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading and feedback - any feedback as long as it's constructive - is more than welcome.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2: Glitch on the Strip

**Chapter 2: Glitch on the Strip  
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**Back to that event in 1993...**

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One rarely heard about accidents on the strip, unless one remembered how Vladimir Smirnov, the Soviet champion, had ended up dead, back in 1982 during the world championships in Rome, as his opponent's foil snapped and penetrated Smirnov's mask.

Young Timothy McGee certainly hadn't been thinking about this poor man's bad luck when his school team had squared off against Santa Rita High School in the first bout of the fencing season. Like most youngsters, he didn't think much about danger anyway. Bad things only happened to others. Never to themselves.

He'd made it through the first pool of 5 to 7 other fencers in the Y14 age group and had got nice results. Based upon those, he was seeded against others to be advanced or placed in a bracket.

His mom and dad had been watching him with bated breath during all his matches and couldn't hide their pride and happiness when their son beat every single opponent he encountered.

Oliver McGee, in particular, was very happy. Seeing his son excel like this was so much more to his liking and he was glad at the competitive streak in his son. His boy was still much in books and computers but Oliver couldn't complain. Brains and brawn... An excellent combination to make it in the Navy; to rise to flag rank, even! Who knows? Another admiral in the making! Oh, yes. Captain Oliver McGee was hard put at containing his appreciation, his pride...even his happiness.

Soon, the moment suprême arrived when the two finalists were getting ready for their final bout. Tim was pitched against James Nelson – Jim - the champion on the other team and a boy he'd come to respect, even if some still resented him for his color.

He was good. He was very very good. He had carried away victory upon victory for his team.

After his mother had finished giving him last minute instructions of how to face the other boy, he donned his protection mask and walked towards the strip with the carefree confidence of the young.

And Sarah... His little sister. She was there, too. Outwardly, she was vibrant with excitement at her big brother looking so dashing and strong. Her fantasy was such that, in her mind's eye, she saw Tim as part of the adventures of the Three Musqueteers...the Scarlet Pimpernel... She didn't understand this ambiguous feeling of excitement and fear. Fear for her brother getting hurt. No matter how many times her parents and big brother had reassured her that the fencers wore excellent protective clothing and rules were such to exclude any dangerous injuries, she still felt apprehensive at seeing her brother fight.

Still, she wouldn't show Tim how scared she was of anything happening to him. Instead, she would cheer and show everybody how happy she was to have such a fantastic brother. Her hero! Ah, if only she could've tied a silk ribbon around his arm. Or slip one in his pocket...

She turned to look at mom and dad.

Theresa and Oliver both watched their son and didn't miss the moment when he zoned out. They knew him well enough to catch that change in him; this higher level of concentration, this ability to block out anything else which might distract him from the game. All he saw now was his opponent – Jim – and the weapon. And as soon as the bout had started, all he did was anticipate moves like a chess player.

Little did they know that, on this fateful day, the gods of fate would play a cruel game with two unsuspecting boys.

- -.-. -. . .

"The art of using a sword scientifically"

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Seconds away from disaster, Tim lunged at virtually the same moment Jim did. It looked like they were both going to make a hit. If they did, the rules of right of way would be applied which would determine who would score.

This time, both weapons simultaneously caught in the middle, clanging and sliding as they continued their forward progression.

As if in slow motion, Tim saw Jim's weapon come closer and closer and, trying to avoid the weapon, he twisted his lean body to thwart off the attack. Right he prepared to retreat, he stumbled... The weapon, which was first aimed at his torso, now was at eye-level, the force of the thrust causing it to penetrate his mask, the point slicing his cheek from the corner of his right eye to just below his ear.

He let go of the hilt as he fell backwards, eyes opened wide with disbelief. How could this happen? These masks were supposed to keep the weapons out – to prevent injuries! At first, he wasn't sure he'd been injured, as the pain hadn't registered yet.

Jim, on top of his utmost horror at having caught his opponent in such a near fatal way, felt his weapon snap as part of it got stuck in Tim's mask.

Still holding onto the hilt, he lurched to the side, landing on top of his own weapon...feeling the steel penetrate his lamé and pierce his side bringing on a sharp bout of pain.

Tim frantically tugged at his gloves so he could take off his mask. He couldn't see a thing and his face felt wet and sticky. He had to be bleeding! He definitely was bleeding out. His eye! How deep had the blade gone?

He was panting with mounting panic and impatience which made pulling off his gloves impossible.

_C'mon, c'mon! Why did the damned gloves not come off?_

Frustrated because his hands didn't cooperate, he struggled to a sitting position and brought his still gloved hands up to pull off the mask and wipe the blood which had pooled in his eye.

He was suffocating!

There was so much noise all around him.

Hands batted away his own and someone pushed him down.

"Calm down, Tim. Just stay down. We'll help you with the mask."

_Mom. That was his mom._

"Hurry! Please hurry! Can't…see…" He stuttered. "C…can't…breathe…"

"It's okay." Another soothing voice. "You're doing fine, Tim."

He tried to calm down. He honestly tried…hard.

"Let them help you, son."

"Dad…"

"We're here, Tim."

Then Tim suddenly remembered Sarah was there, too.

_Oh my God! She'd witnessed it all!_

"S..Sarah?" His voice was hoarse from the stress and the worry.

"Brandy is looking after her. Don't worry, Tim."

_Ah, good. One of the girls from his team._

"The ambulance is on its way." A different, matter-of-fact voice.

He whimpered.

"I..I'm…I'm…not…I don't think..."

"It's okay, sweetie. It's going to be okay."

"Hey, just relax, okay? Let's see what we can do about you, now."

His head was lifted off the floor and supported as his mask was gently pulled off. The fresh air had never been as welcome as now. The wetness of his bleeding cheek had made the air inside thick and his excessive and panicked breathing difficult. He took great shuddering gulps of it.

_What a relief!_

And he didn't seem to be so badly injured after all. But, wait a minute, how about that ambulance?

_Jim!_

That was enough to fill him with dread again.

Once more, he struggled to sit up.

"Hey, hey! Let us just wipe the blood off your face, sweetie?"

"Jim! What's wrong with Jim? How bad is he?"

Something soft swabbed his face. They were cautious so as not to touch the wound when they wiped most of the blood from his eye and his face, but now at least, he could see.

He blinked and turned his head…towards another small group a few yards away from where he lay.

The man who was giving him first aid followed his gaze.

"He's being taken good care off, Tim. He'll be fine. And so will you."

Tim brought his by now freed hands up to his face again. And again, they were intercepted and brought back down to his side.

"You've got an nasty gash, there, young man."

"B…bad?"

His father chuckled, though there was a slight tremor to his voice. "You may be left with a nice scar to impress the girls, son." 

- -.-. -. . . 

As it turned out, the gash was a nasty one which just kept bleeding.

15 stitches were needed to close the thing up in order to leave as little scar tissue as possible.

Now, the teenager sported an ugly cut high on his right cheek which would eventually heal into a long, thin scar and fade with age.

Jim, on the other hand...hadn't been so fortunate.

As it transpired, the broken off foil, while not having pierced any vital organs, it had caused enough damage to have him suffer some considerable blood loss. He was to spend weeks in hospital to recover. He was lucky to have escaped with his life.

The psychological effects, though, were another thing.

Jim could say good-bye to his dreams to become a professional.

Tim, already having decided on going to university when the time would come, wasn't loathe to give up his hobby. As he was healing, it would soon become apparent the emotional scars ran deeper than the actual cut.


	3. Chapter 3: Trying a Different Sport

**Chapter 3: Trying a Different Sport  
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**NCIS HQ - 2002**

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McGee had an appreciative eye for the female agent's attractive body. He took in her every move, at the same time enjoying the shape of her legs, her female curves, her ...as she's performing a series of stretches for warming-up.

Right now, she was sitting in a rather impressive looking straddle split.

"Wow, she's pretty flexible."

Instantly, his eyes widened at the sudden realization he'd said that aloud.

"Just don't let her catch you looking at her, Probie."

Trust DiNozzo to have heard that. Never mind. He'd already been caught out staring by Special Agent Caitlin Todd, anyway. He cursed himself for blushing like a girl.

"But...what was that look she's throwing at me? Wow! What the heck is she thinking!"

"I think she saw me. She gave me that look."

"What look?" Tony asked, for once appearing very interested. To his frat boy's mind, this was surely food for his favorite sport of hazing the gullible probie.

"The look she's always giving you."

Tony nodded and clapped a hand on Tim's shoulder. Then, he gave an evil grin which forebode nothing good. "Yep. She saw you. Hope you wear a cup."

The MCRT of which Tim had only recently become a member, had gone down to the gym for some close combat training. Usually, field agents were expected to train individually in their down time, but occasionally, there were more specialized training sessions to hone their fighting skills more than keeping their bodies in shape.

Talking of which... Tim let his gaze go over his own...rather pudgy figure in his sweat stained T-shirt and baggy slacks. Yes, it was about time he did something to lose some weight.

The Team Leader, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, started today's session without much preamble, teaming Tim with...none other than Agent Todd. Kate.

Tim could only stare at her while she continued her warming-up. He'd rather have Tony for an opponent. Not Gibbs. God knew what devious tricks this former and rather intimidating Marine had in his sleeve! Not for the first time, Tim thought he wouldn't be able to do anything right for his Team Leader. He still wondered why he'd been taken on the MCRT in the first place!

"We're grappling today." Kate figuratively snapped her fingers in front of McGee's face when she caught him ogling her ass.

That effectively snapped him out of his trance. It wasn't his fault she was showing off such a nice, well formed…body.

"You want to grapple?" His eyes threatened to pop out until he remembered what they were in the gym for in the first place.

She narrowed her eyes, planting her hands on her hips. "Yeah, you have a problem with that?"

Problem? Er… What was he going to say to that? He'd never fought a girl before!

"No, it's just… you know, I did some wrestling in high school."

This mere statement was enough to make him blush...again.

She grinned. "Did you, now?"

"I've been taking classes."

Why was it that he was having this sinking feeling that she wouldn't in the least bit be impressed by his wrestling skills?

Kate didn't give him much time to think and before he knew it, she had him flat on his back and, much to his embarrassment and dismay, staring up at Kate's smirking face.

"Did I mention I was handpicked to protect the President of the United States?"

"Five times!" He groaned, struggling back to his feet.

"Are you going to take that abuse, McGee?" Tony's gleeful shout was enough to spur Tim into action and he let his countless hours on the mat take over. Besides, why should he go easy on somebody who'd been a US Secret Service Special Agent assigned to the Presidential Protection Detail on Air Force One?

"No!" He growled and this time Kate was the one flipped to the mat. No more qualms about hurting a girl.

Kate wouldn't be Kate if she didn't have her revanche by planting a well aimed knee in Tim's crotch. An surprised yelp escaped from his lips and he sank down on his knees gasping for air at the excruciating agony.

Eyes tightly shut, he moaned and rolled over onto his side cupping his bruised boys with both hands. Locked in his own misery, he was oblivious to the snickers coming from his team mates.

Such a humiliating kick had given his male ego quite a blow, too.

A cell phone rang and Gibbs, bringing the device to his ear, answered the call.

Thank God for small mercies! Whomever had called in the team couldn't have timed it better.

Nevertheless, it was with mixed feelings he followed the others out of the gym. At least the training session was over, but, oh boy!, some specific part of his anatomy now felt like it had doubled in size.

Luckily for Tim, the rest of the team left him pretty much to himself. It wasn't until later that day when the team had headed back to HQ and they were stepping out of the elevator and over to their respective desks that Tony gave his shoulder a little squeeze.

"Hey, buddy. How are you holding up?"

Tim frowned, thinking it wouldn't be beyond Tony to pretend being all friendly if only to play another of his pranks on him or enjoy rubbing something in some more.

"Why?"

He kept his voice wary, but Tony was still looking at him earnestly.

"I know it blows when she does that."

"Yeah, right." Tim mumbled as he shook off his backpack and sat behind his workstation, booting it up.

"Beaten by a…a…girl."

Tony considered his morose coworker. "Hey, stop selling yourself short. Don't you believe you're the only one she's made kiss the dirt in such a backhanded way! On another note, that was a pretty neat move you used on her."

"And much good it did."

Then Tony's face lit up. "Know what? How about a movie night at…your place, of course… You must tell me where you learnt to wrestle like that. Did you really have one of those sexy singlets?"

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High School 1993

Soon after the accident, he'd made up his mind. No tweaking from his parents could make him change his mind and so he hung up his tights, packing away all his gear in a box which he personally took upstairs to stow it away in the most remote and darkest corner of the attic.

Giving up the fencing had left his father much chagrined. That alone made him feel even more than ever like a loser.

Tim was just in the act of swinging his leg over his bike for his ride home from school when someone hailed him.

"Timothy! Timothy McGee!"

He brought his foot back down and turned around to see who was calling his name. Finding it to be the physics teacher, he patiently stood waiting beside his bicycle.

"I'm glad to catch you still here."

Tim said nothing and waited for the man to continue.

"It won't take long, Timothy."

Tim merely shrugged, still not very forthcoming.

"Okay, then. You are some elusive guy, know that?" The man grinned. "What I was going to say. I heard about your accident at the championships. That was some piece of bad luck, there. Did I hear that right that you quit the fencing?"

"You heard that right. What about it?"

"I also learnt you didn't join the other school teams. I wondered if wrestling wouldn't be more something along your line. We could use guys like you. What d'you think?"

After the accident, Tim had given it some thought. It had lead to eliminating about all the team sports the school offered as he was sure he wouldn't do well in teams. Then his parents had suggested athletics. Were they kidding? What's the sense in...just running continuously around a track going nowhere? Mind numbing boring. It seemed a pretty silly sport to him.

At least the fencing was an interesting sport for its strategic aspect. A mental game. He had to literally think on his feet and he liked that. That sport was a lot more intellectually challenging than, say, fighting your way on the turf to get hold of an oval ball. He had to admit football also used strategy, albeit of a different kind, but...no. No team sports for him. He'd discovered at a very young age he was a loner and the last thing he wanted, was to be part of a...pack...or a herd...

But, to get back to the issue: he hadn't felt the same after the accident. And he wasn't sure he would ever again.

Tim lifted his eyes skyward and sighed before looking back down and straight into the man's eyes.

"Look. There's a reason why I quit, all right?"

"What can go wrong with the good old wrestling? It's not like you're fighting with sharp and pointed weapons. The worst that can happen is a sprained ankle or a dislocated shoulder... Nothing serious. Trust me. You're a smart guy. Right? You have the right reflexes. You're fast and agile. You're a quick thinker and are able to keep a cool head..."

Tim held up a hand to stop the man.

"My reflexes and whatever other assets you just summed up amount to nothing. There's nothing left! You hear that? I...I..."

His gaze became distant. Retrospective. Thinking back at Jim's foil snapping as it penetrated his protective mask. Or Jim lying in a pool of blood.

In a whisper, he continued: "I've lost my touch when I nearly killed a friend. I could've killed him!" It didn't matter it was just a terrible accident. It didn't matter Jim wasn't hurt by his foil. All he could think of was that it happened during their bout and he'd felt responsible, guilty even. And there was no need.

"I...I'm scared of hurting anyone again."

Tim shuddered at the recollection. In fact, he'd been trying to get rid of the images of Jim bleeding to death on the strip. He remembered Jim's...pale face. As pale as his skin could ever get. He was still plagued by nightmares! Not a single night passed without him waking up panting and in a sweat. Not a single day passed without him touching the long scar that ran down his right cheek.

He didn't know if he would ever take up a sword again. He might. But right now, he didn't see that happen any time soon.

"Timothy. You don't have to decide now. Sleep on it, okay? Let me know when you're ready. But, trust me, it would be for the best if you took up something again. Okay, I was thinking in the first place for my own shop, but you can't think back to what happened then forever. It's not going to happen again."

"Who says?"

"People who've been there. Not exactly the same way, but trust me, I was just like you and you'd be surprised how many like you there are."

Tim didn't know what to say to that and just stood there, bike in hand and quite undecided. It would be good to do something to keep his mind away from that ill-fated contest.

The wrestling coach checked his watch.

"Look Timothy, I've got to go. Just give it some thought, okay? Take care of yourself."

_Give it some thought,_ the man had said. Well, come to that, Timothy McGee didn't need to think much about it, for he'd already decided.


	4. Chapter 4: Walking the Strip Again

**Thank you all for the nice reviews and the many story alerts. They're much appreciated.**

**BTW: for those of you who wondered about Jim Nelson, that character on the show: I took some liberties by letting them be friends long before they became NCIS Agents.  
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**So, here's the next chapter. It's a little longer than the previous ones. I hope you'll like it.  
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><p><strong><span>Chapter <span>4: Walking the Strip Again  
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**2001**

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Tim had discussed this ad nausea with his father. Whether his father liked it or not, Timothy McGee was resolute: he would not pursue a naval career. He realized his parents, his father in particular, were disappointed he was not going to the Naval Academy so he could, maybe, one day be promoted to flag rank like his granddad.

It was not so much that he didn't like the sea, or ships for that matter. No. He was just not a creature of the sea. It was as simple as that. It had already been established after several family outings on a boat. Just stepping on board his dad's ship, when it was berthed in some port nearby, had him green around the gills and dying of misery, puking his guts out. Rather embarrassing.

One day, as he was on his way to the bank where he had a desk job, a budding idea grew into solid determination. It had been sparked off on that particular morning as he sat reading the Washington Post over a bowl of cereals and his first mug of steaming coffee. One article was all he needed to change the course of his destiny. He hated the drab, monotonous job at the bank. After finishing his MA in Forensic Computer Science at MIT and a BA in Biochemical Engineering, he couldn't believe he had gone through all that for...a dull, uninteresting job at a bank. So mainstream ordinary and boring; thoroughly lacking in intellectual challenge.

That article, now, was about the bravery of the NCIS. How special agents had pitted their wits against some criminal mastermind.

Law enforcement.

To investigate and defeat crime. Cliché as it sounded, that was precisely what he wanted to do with his life. And once he'd set his mind on something...Timothy McGee was all determination to get it.

What's more: this way, he would put his degree to good use. _After all, aren't we all living in the ever expanding digital age?_

NCIS. Naval Criminal Investigative Service.

Naval...

He wouldn't exactly be serving on a ship, but a job within this organization was about the closest he could come to continuing on with the family 'tradition' of serving in the Navy.

Tonight, when he got home, he would apply for a position within this agency.

He was looking forward to becoming a Special Agent, one day.

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- -.-. -. . .

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There was no sleep for him, the night following the day he'd found a letter in his mail box stating he'd been selected to become an NCIS Special Agent.

From the letter he learned he was to enlist at the Glynco based Federal Law Enforcement Training Center (FLETC). There, he was to take the Criminal Investigators Training Program as well as the NCIS-specific Special Agent Basic Training Program.

He put down the letter.

Twelve weeks before he would be heading down to Brunswick, Georgia.

YES!

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- -.-. -. . .

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**FLETC, Glynco, GA.**

Tim checked his schedule for the class room he was to take himself to. His first class was on criminal case management. He neatly returned the sheet to the folder and stowed it back in his backpack which he swung over his shoulder before climbing the short flight of steps up to the main entrance of the building.

The room was on the second floor and he quickly took the staircase which led to that floor and his class. Moving along the corridor, he passed a line of rooms to one side; the other side was one wall of glass windows looking out over the main lawn with benches set up and students taking breaks or on the way to their respective classes.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he pushed through a set of double doors and walked on until he found himself standing in front of the right room, its door wide open as other students filed in.

Hesitating only a fraction of a second, he stepped inside the class room and picked out an empty place. Shaking his backpack off and onto his desk, he started retrieving a notebook and a pencil.

"Tim? Timothy McGee?"

He turned around to the unfamiliar voice and his eyes opened wide when he recognized the speaker as...

"J...Jim Nelson?"

The young Afro-American flashed his teeth in a broad smile and offered his hand which Tim shook with some vigor once he got over his surprise.

"Yep. Me."

Jim Nelson pulled Tim into a short embrace and clapped a hand on Tim's shoulder before stepping back to look at his friend.

"So good to see you back, man. It's been a long time."

Jim was outright enthusiastic about meeting Tim again. For a fraction of a second, a cloud had passed over his features as he thought back about that bout gone south and all the pain he'd experienced for months after.

He sat down at the desk next to Tim's and regarded his friend.

"How have you been doing?"

Both young men...aspiring Federal Agents...just sat and talked until the instructor finally entered, to which the whole class went silent.

Training had started in earnest and a friendship had been renewed. Afterwards, one might even say it developed into a friendship stronger than it had been before.

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- -.-. -. . .

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**First week at FLETC**

"I can't do this anymore!" Tim panted as he fell flat on his face...in the soft dirt of the track, his arms unable to hold him up any longer.

If this was an indication of what he could expect of the next thirteen weeks, a ratio of two runs a week, he wasn't sure how he would ever make it through the training. He could kiss good-bye to his dream of becoming a Federal Agent.

He hadn't realized how out of shape he'd been all this time.

When he'd started out at MIT, he'd joined their wrestling team, if only for a short while. He was taking his studies very seriously. As it happened, pretty soon, they took precedence over the wrestling. Even his online gaming had been toned down. With becoming sedentary and slightly overweight, his current physical state was bad.

If only he'd known the physical training part was going to be this tough.

God! This regimen was already killing him and the first week wasn't even over, yet!

A good thing he didn't have to worry about hills! The fit trail was hard enough without the added difficulty level consisting of hills.

"Sure you can, Tim. You'll be back in shape before you know it." Jim replied without breaking the steady rhythm of his own push-ups. "Though I still can't understand why you let yourself go like this."

"McGee! 20 more for you!"

"What? You must be kidding!" Tim cried out indignantly, raising himself to sit back, hands on his knees. But then he flushed an even deeper crimson than he already was as he was struck by the realization of how he'd just addressed the physics instructor. This was not the way to get his badge within the agency of his choice.

In a blink, the man's face was inches away from his own. "What was that, McGee? Another 20!" He turned away; off to plague another trainee.

Tim groaned as he resumed his push-ups.

PT was every other day, after classes and invariably lasted 2,5 hours. Mostly, the students went for a 2 miles' run, spiced up with stops to do mountain climbers or...push-ups. Like now.

After a while, his arms were trembling with the strain. He was about to give up when he heard Jim's voice from beside him.

"C'mon, Tim. You can do it. 20 more and you're done. Give it just one more little push."

20! As if those 20 were small beer!

Tim opened his eyes which he'd shut a while ago in the hopes of blanking his mind so his body would be on autopilot. They shifted sideways towards Jim.

"Sh...shouldn't you be finished l...llong...ago, Jim?" Tim hissed between breaths.

"I'm staying here with you. Not going to let you quit, Tim."

"I...can't...do...this! I...I'm...I can't!"

His arms no longer able to support his weight, buckled and he landed with a soft thud in the dirt. He rolled over onto his back and covered his eyes with his hand as he shook with misery, shame and exhaustion.

"Tim. Tim!" Jim shook his friend. "You can't quit! You hear me?"

The PT instructor 'from hell' retraced his steps, letting the others continue their run, and stopped in front of both young men.

"Nelson. Go!" The man instructed Jim, jerking his head and pointing his thumb down the track the others of their group had taken.

Jim complied and ran off, briefly turning to throw one more look at his friend. _Remember, Tim; you can do it!_

The instructor regarded Tim with disdain as the young man, gulping, scrambled to his feet from his recumbent position.

"_I'm done._" Tim thought, standing in front of the instructor. Why was it he had the feeling he was at a boot camp?

"Want me to whip your ass into shape, boy?"

Now, Tim had learned to belt up.

The man gave him a shove between the shoulder blades making him stumble. "Move. Don't expect I'll give you a ride back in the chase truck!"

Yep. He definitely was in boot camp. And he had the bad luck to have one very bad tempered ex-Marine against him.

He got his heavy legs moving and, while he didn't exactly find his sixth gear, he jogged after the others, huffing and puffing and rather embarrassed.

.

- -.-. -. . .

.

Thanks to Jim's encouragement, Tim had been able to deal with the tough PT. He was glad to get most of his former stamina back. He had never made it as fast as the others for the whole period at FLETC, but he had been vastly improving.

Maybe he should start doing something about his weight. However, that would have to be put on the back burner until he had the time to do it.

.

- -.-. -. . .

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**Post FLETC – at a DC gym**

He noticed his palms were sweaty and his heart was beating wildly in his chest.

Nervous?

_Not a little!_ He thought to himself with a lopsided grin.

Thanks to a personal coach and working out regularly, he'd slowly regained most of his former athletic self.

And then, Jim had badgered him into taking up the sword again.

Now, the two man stood facing one another expectantly and a little awkwardly.

It was Jim who first broke the silence. "Leave the past behind and start again, Tim." Jim said as he clapped down his mask. "Trust me. I had to do the same."

"But it's not the same."

Jim sighed. He couldn't understand how Tim would still feel the guilt after all those years. It was an accident.

"It was none of your fault, Tim."

He pushed the protection mask back up with one hand, a look of exasperation crossing his face. Damn Tim for his stubbornness. They had discussed this often but there seemed to be no way for Tim to accept it was an accident.

"Man! How often do we have to go through this conversation?" Jim asked, sounding aggravated.

"How can you go so lightly over this? You…you nearly died that day!"

"But I didn't! Did I? So stop letting it eat away at you."

Tim turned away to the side and looked down at his feet, his foil hanging as if forgotten from his left hand.

"So buck up!" Jim said rather harshly, giving a soft slap at his friend's backside.

That brought Tim up sharp and he faced Jim again, glaring.

"What's it gonna be? Eh?"

Tim licked his lips and after a moment's hesitation, he replied: "I…I haven't fenced since then…"

"Hey! Nor have I! So let's start again. The two of us. Besides, this isn't a competition. Let's take it easy, okay? Little steps?"

He flashed a grin and brought his mask down over his face again. He placed his right foot a little forward, bending his knees slightly, his right hand holding the blade, in front.

With a little flick of his wrist he signalled Tim to get ready.

"En garde!"

Tim still stood a little tense. Then, taking his foil in his right hand, he wiped his left on his pants before the adapting traditional pose, but with his dominant foot and hand forward.

He took a shaky breath, trying to get rid of the knot in the pit of his stomach. He

Both men stood en garde longer than was customary, as if hesitant of starting what had ended years ago; as if trying to get the feel of their weapons again, weapons that had felt so natural before.

"Trust me, Tim. I can do it. You can do it."

Tim giggled nervously. "What if people see us like two newbies?"

Jim made a show of looking around the deserted gym, spreading his arms. "People? What? Where? We're all alone." He re-adapted his pose. "You'll do fine, bro. Stop worrying."

Tim cleared his throat.

"Ready?"

A brisk nod.

"Yeah."

Soon, the clatter and clang of weapons were heard as the two sparred, having fallen back into their former, familiar motions. They went through all the exercises which came back to them as if these had become second nature to them.

The longer they fought, the more enthusiastic they became.

The tension left both their bodies and the movements came with more ease; more comfortable.

The lunges and retreats came faster and with more physical ease as the game progressed.

Eventually, when they had worn themselves out, they lowered their weapons and walked off towards their bags to take some water.

Masks off and lamés laid aside, they sat back on the bench, chests heaving with exertion, and shared a goofy grin. Their eyes sparkled in glistening faces, triumphant in their achievement.

They'd done it.

What's more: they'd done it together!


	5. Chapter 5: Twist of Fate

**The last chapter.  
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**Thank you all for reading this story and the positive feedback. **

**The last two chapters haven't been proof read but I sincerely hope I didn't commit too many typos or any flagrant grammatical errors. I'm not English.  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Note<strong>**: Episode Tag to "Grace Period" (S04E19)**

**You'll find snatches of that episode in this chapter.**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter <span>5: Twist of Fate  
><strong>

.

**May 2008 - Officers Memorial Day**

.

After the short memorial service in the FLETC Chapel in honor to the students who'd fallen in the line of duty during the past year, Tim slowly made his way to the Memorial Wall where he found Jim's name, engraved in one of the nine polished Minnesota granite panels.

Tim only heard half of what was being said at the The Peace Officers Memorial. His mind kept straying back to his days at FLETC. Hadn't it been for Jim Nelson, he might not have made it.

His marks had shown that, due to his dedication and tenacity, he had been able to master all that was needed to make a good NCIS Agent.

However, knowledge, the various skills and abilities necessary for his profession, also came coupled with physical prowess. To someone like Tim, that posed the hardest part. Thankfully, with the help of a staunch friend like Jim, Tim could eventually make it in the tough athletics training and improve to such a standard he passed all the physical tests.

They'd both been good enough to raise to that coveted status of Field Agents at two of the best MCRT's.

Now and then, words filtered through his thoughts.

"...Let's all pray for our fallen brothers..."

Tim couldn't think of the sacrifice made by other agents from other agencies.

There was only one.

_"My Fallen Brother..."_

.

- -.-. -. . .

.

**September 2007**

The news came like a bombshell...

The kind of news that had Team Gibbs end up working on a case too close to home for comfort... A case which might very well have been on them.

Tim shuddered.

He had drawn the shortest straw, so he was the one to make that call to Gibbs to tell him the sad news of the death of two Agents: Richard 'Rick' Hall and... Jim. Dead.

Paula Cassidy's team which included Richard 'Rick' Hall and Jim have been on duty two weekends in a row. The ironic truth was that this weekend, Gibbs' team was supposed to be on 'tip line' duty, but Gibbs had managed to get his team the weekend off.

So cruel fate had it that, instead of Gibbs' team, two members of Paula's MCRT had walked into an ambush, meeting their end by the hands of a suicide bomber inside a shop on Millstone Avenue.

Mercifully, Rick and Jim had been killed instantly. And that's also what Director Shepard had told Amy, Jim's young wife, and Tom and Mary Hall, Rick's parents. Alas, to their families this was but a small consolation.

To Tim, it was a gruesome sight that met his eyes as he haltingly walked inside the shop, his senses assaulted by the permeating acrid smell of explosives residue, charred metal, wet plaster and burnt flesh. His gaze was instantly attracted to the body half sitting against the wall close to the entrance and he just knew it was Jim's.

Jim was dead.

_"It could've been us. It should've been me..."_

As they were processing the bombing scene, Ducky caught Tim, perched on his haunches, gazing as if mesmerized at Jim's charred body.

Odd. Jim's right eye was still half open as if staring at forever.

Ducky knew Tim well enough to notice the subtle changes in the young man's behavior. It didn't take him that long to deduce what had caused those. Granted, it wasn't every day one got confronted with a charred victim of a bomb explosion. Yet, young Timothy McGee was no rookie and had seen his share of brutal death and destruction.

This could mean but one thing.

"_Oh dear..._"

"You knew him."

Tim forced himself to look Ducky in the eye, if only briefly. "He was a good friend of mine." He continued staring at Jim's burnt face. "I hate seeing him like this. It's almost like…" Gulping, he couldn't bring himself to go on.

Ducky nodded in understanding as he turned his attention back to the headless corpse of the suicide bomber. "It could have been you."

Gibbs joined them. "It almost was, McGee. We were supposed to work the hot line this weekend."

"Boss, you're serious about that?" Tony called as he made his way over to them from his corner amidst the devastation caused by the bomb.

A commotion at the entrance to the shop brought the conversation to an end. They would talk about this at some other time.

.

- -.-. -. . .

.

Later, down at the lab, Abby had found him sitting against the cabinet next to the fridge. He sat with his knees bent and his arms resting on them, staring into oblivion.

She hadn't heard him enter, intent as she was playing and replaying the tapes, comparing the tip-line calls. A small sound made her turn to the right very slowly.

"McGee? That you? How long have you been sitting there?"

Seeing Tim sitting there in silence with the saddest look on his face, freaked her out a little, truth to tell.

"Not long."

"I'm really… sorry about Jim Nelson. I know you guys were really close."

"I wouldn't have graduated from FLETC without his help." Tim replied with a slight tremor to his voice.

Her heart went out to her friend.

"Then we would have never met."

"Or maybe he'd still be alive. We were supposed to take the weekend shift. Those bodies downstairs should be us."

Abby sighed. Of course he would think like this. This was Timmy! McGee, who had the ability to make unrelenting self-criticism an art form.

Leaving her workspace, she went over to her best friend and, lowering herself to his level, she held out her arms as an invitation to a comforting embrace.

"Timothy, don't even think things like that, okay? Everything happens for a reason."

Closing his eyes, Tim accepts her support and leans into her surprisingly gentle hug.

This precious moment was broken by the rather untimely arrival of Gibbs and Paula.

"I'm not even going to ask," the Team Leader stated sarcastically at seeing his people in such close contact.

"Um, technically that was a squatting hug, or a "squg," if you will. But I digress." Abby said, getting up and scurrying over to her computer.

Gibbs stooped and held out a hand to Tim.

"Yeah, big time."

A little surprised, Tim accepted the hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. Still feeling a little in shock, he knew the job was waiting. He shuffled out of the lab on feet weighing tons.

"I have some paperwork to do," he muttered and made himself scarce.

They had a murderer to catch. A murderer still at large, as the suicide bomber...wasn't exactly a suicide bomber. Not since they'd found out he'd been dead for a day before he was blown to kingdom come.

But all he could see were Jim's eyes, half-lidded in death.

.

- -.-. -. . .

.

**May 2008 – Back at the Memorial**

All those months after the bombing, Tim could reflect on the past.

Like the day he'd first met the dark skinned boy with the ready smile and the good times they'd had at the competitions.

He would never forget Jim's invaluable support which helped him through FLETC when he himself had been close to giving up, thinking he'd never make it.

He recalled the day when Jim, bursting with excitement, had called him with the news that he was going to marry Amy, the girl of his dreams. He'd been Jim's best man at his wedding.

A few months ago, he'd celebrated with Amy the birth of their baby boy. Paul. Named after Jim's Team Leader, Paula Cassidy, who had sacrificed herself to save the lives of others but also because she couldn't live with the guilt at not having been able to protect her team members.

So here he stood, honoring the memory of his fallen friend; saying a prayer and promising Jim he'd look out for Amy and the little kid.

"_Rest in piece, my friend. You've earned it._"

"_It should've been me._"

He ran a finger over the carved letters.

Then he let his eyes go over the other two names: Richard Hall and Paula Cassidy.

Three more names added to the monument.

Three more brave people who had given the ultimate sacrifice in their fight against crime, in service of their homeland.

Then, he turned away.

One day, he would join them.

Right now, however, life would go on... Jim wouldn't want him to dwell on this.

Just like with that accident in the past, Tim had had no hand in Jim's death, nor had there been anything Tim could've done to alter the course of history.

What happened, had been intended to happen all along.

It was a fatal destiny.

It was part of the job.

Being a Federal Agent wasn't easy. The job was never completely safe with danger lurking around every corner. Tragedies were prone to happen. More names would be added to the Memorial... Friends might still be dying performing the job they loved.

He couldn't help but marvel at the mark Jim had left and smiled.

Tim had learned to persevere. He was a fighter and as long as he would believe in the job he was performing, justice would prevail.

He would continue "_to investigate and defeat criminal, foreign, and terrorist intelligence threats to the United States Navy and Marine Corps, wherever they operate: ashore, afloat, or in cyberspace._"

Tonight, he was going back to the club.

He would take up his sword again remembering Jim. And what better place than on the strip to reminisce about all he'd learned from a good man?

_Lunge. Charge. **Touché!**_

**FIN**

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><p><strong>Don't let this last chapter keep you from offering feedback. <strong>

**If you come across a mistake, please let me know.  
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